by Fonda Lee
Administrator Seir moved immediately to the next topic of discussion, one of greater global concern. “As you’ve heard, a representative of the Homeworld Council is on his way to Earth and will be arriving in Round Three in ten days.”
Though his nerves were still on edge, Donovan sat up and paid attention; this must be related to the alert about an erze inspection that had been sent to the Hardened SecPac officers yesterday morning. Seir paused, and from the slight riffle of fins through the circle, Donovan got the sense that the zhree zun were as ambivalent about the news as he, Jet, and Leon had been.
“What is the purpose of this visit?” Builder Dor asked, a wary note in his voice.
Soldier Werth answered. “The High Speaker has sent one of his most trusted advisers to conduct a military assessment of the colony. I expect the Homeworld Council intends to evaluate whether the current level of defense spending on Earth is warranted.”
“We know the High Speaker is inclined to reduce investment in the frontier regions of the galaxy. This visit will be an opportunity for us to explain how we plan to maintain and defend Earth as a colony of the Mur Erzen Commonwealth with the resources we currently have,” Seir declared. “In our last discussion, we identified the highest-priority issues for each erze. Now we must propose solutions that the High Speaker and the Homeworld Council will understand and find acceptable. Nurse Thet will begin with how we can improve hatch rates and brood nutrition.”
Nurse Thet took a step into the circle and began talking at length about incubation challenges and brooding cycles. After several minutes, Donovan started to zone out. He couldn’t help it; it was hard to stay focused on long conversations about things he didn’t understand, sometimes involving words he didn’t even know, and it didn’t seem as if the discussion was going to shed any further light on the message from yesterday. Even with a fluent understanding of the Mur language, Donovan found that these sessions taxed him to the maximum of his ability. When the zhree spoke directly to humans, they usually spoke slowly, moving their fins deliberately, so the translation machines they trailed around with them could accurately relay messages. In here, there were no translation machines. The zhree colonists discussed and debated rapidly, the fins on the tops of their domed bodies flashing light and dark patterns like whipping signal flags, their many eyes instantly capturing the back-and-forth exchanges from opposite sides of the circle. Even on a good day, Donovan could only do his best to keep up.
Today was not one of those good days. His mind had been too full of troubling images and nagging questions for him to sleep well last night. The chair seemed especially hard and cold this morning, and the animated zhree voices ringing off the walls reinforced how out of place he was. There wasn’t always much for him to do in these meetings; sometimes the zhree zun asked him questions or solicited his human viewpoint, and he always answered as best he could, but for the most part, it seemed ridiculously naive and delusional that he’d ever imagined he could make any real difference. He wasn’t his father. He didn’t have visionary ideas about how to improve life on Earth or relations between the species, and he clearly didn’t have any special insight into what his father’s plans had been. He could barely stay awake in this conversation about … about … Donovan blinked and paid sudden attention again. Soldier Werth had stepped forward and was speaking.
“We have scarcely enough Soldiers to defend the planet, and Kreet has already declared it will not bolster our forces. Improved hatch rates won’t help us in the short term. Our highest priority when it comes to planetary security must be increasing the number of Hardened soldiers-in-erze.” Soldier Werth’s multi-directional gaze was determined; his short, thick fins stiffened in a weighty pause before continuing. “We need to combat the upswing of violence on the planet’s surface and start bringing humans into more substantive support roles alongside Soldiers. There’s no reason why a human can’t be taught how to pilot a transport ship or operate an ion cannon.”
“What if all newly Hardened humans were marked by the Soldier erze?” Administrator Seir asked.
There was a protesting wave of flaring fins around the circle. “Preferential selection of Hardened humans is already given to the Soldier erze!” Builder Dor said, his fins snapping resentfully. “The Builder erze is always lacking enough exos.”
“There’s need for exos in areas besides the military,” Engineer Phee agreed. “Non-Hardened humans are vulnerable to pressure changes and radiation. We could use human engineering support on ships and orbital platforms, but there are simply not enough exos.”
“I agree that assigning all Hardened humans to the Soldier erze isn’t the answer,” Soldier Werth said to Seir. “A human has to have the right qualities to successfully wear Soldier markings. Judging which ones are suitable is both an art and a science; I select each exo for my erze personally.”
Even though his erze master appeared to be caught up in the discussion and ignoring him completely, Donovan felt his spine straighten with pride.
“The only way to meet our colony’s needs in the long run is to aggressively increase the overall number of humans Hardened,” Werth declared.
“We all know the High Speaker is reluctant to place so much reliance on human allies,” hummed Administrator Seir. “But assuming for a moment that the homeworld doesn’t object, what’s preventing us from doubling or tripling Hardening rates?”
Nurse Thet responded. “Most of the Rounds have already expanded Hardening facilities and medical care capacity for exos. Hardening rates can be quickly accelerated, but we are limited by how many healthy and qualified human hatchlings are volunteered by the adults.”
The zhree zun pondered this for a minute. “Can we incentivize more humans to accept Hardening?” Administrator Seir asked. “There’s no reason why it can’t become a natural rite for their species as it is for ours.”
“The incentives are already strong: automatic erze status, better living conditions, greater opportunities, resistance to injury and disease, lifespans nearly double that of humans lacking exocels,” said Scholar Ean. “Unfortunately, many humans still fear Hardening as something foreign to their kind, and even the current three percent mortality rate is unacceptable to many humans who might have broods of only one or two offspring throughout their lives.”
Soldier Werth struck one of his limbs on the ground for emphasis. “Given the urgency of this colony’s military needs, conscription ought to be considered. One healthy human youngster out of each mating pair of two erze-marked adults.”
It took Donovan a second to understand. Then he shot to his feet. “You can’t do that!”
Dozens of hard amber eyes focused on him as all the fins around the circle abruptly stilled. Donovan flinched back from his own outburst as soon as it escaped his mouth. He’d rudely contradicted his own erze master, and for a second he couldn’t put two words together. Heart pounding, he found his voice again. “With respect, zun, no matter how much we need more exos, it would be wrong to force humans to offer up their kids to be Hardened. It should be a choice. It can’t be something you make people do. It can’t.”
None of the zhree said anything in response, and in the uncomfortable silence, more words spilled from Donovan before he could figure out how best to phrase them. “Right now, humans are marked because they want to be. They won’t want to be if you do this. You’ll make people hate and fear exos even more.” Panotin crawled involuntarily across his taut knuckles. “Sapience already spreads lies telling people that exos are brainwashed slaves and that the zhree plan to Harden all humans and control our whole species. If you play straight into what they’re saying, you’ll only make Sapience stronger. You’ll turn more people against the whole idea of cooperation. We could lose the erze system, maybe even the peace of the Accord.”
With genuine bafflement, Scientist Laah said, “But Hardening is the morally responsible thing to do. Aren’t humans clearly better off with exocels?”
“You didn’t make the ch
oice for yourself when you were a small hatchling, Donovan.” Soldier Werth’s slow tone of remonstration made Donovan wonder if he hadn’t put himself on the wrong side of his erze master permanently. “Are you not grateful to be an exo?”
Donovan opened his mouth and closed it again. Of course he would rather be an exo than a squishy. But that didn’t make the idea of conscription right. “I’m glad I’m Hardened,” he said slowly, “but I wouldn’t ask anyone else to Harden their kids if they didn’t want to.” He glanced nervously but resolutely around the circle of unblinking alien eyes. “It has to be a choice,” he repeated. “Or else … or else you’re no better than what the sapes say.”
A tense silence followed. Donovan wondered if he would be sent from the room. He refrained from looking at Soldier Werth. Hadn’t his erze master just said that he chose his exos carefully? Donovan was sure Werth didn’t choose them so they could undermine him in front of the other zhree zun. An erze handled disputes and disagreements internally but was always united behind the zun when dealing with others; Donovan had never heard two zhree with the same markings disagree with each other in public.
But what else could he have done? That was why he was here, wasn’t it, to advise the zhree? They’d put him in this position, so how could they blame him for offending erze decorum?
“The plan we propose to Kreet should include scenarios for both a moderate and aggressive rate of increase in the exo population,” Administrator Seir declared at last. “We won’t rule out any options at this point.”
Soldier Werth’s six large eyes took in the entire circle, but one opaque yellow orb stared directly at Donovan. “Human self-determination is a noble principle,” he said, “but one we may need to sacrifice if it means convincing Kreet to support our plan instead of the alternative.”
Administrator Seir gave voice to the thought in a resigned strum. “Abandoning Earth.”
It was nearly noon by the time Administrator Seir adjourned the meeting and Donovan got out of the Towers. Soldier Werth left without acknowledging him further, striding out of the assembly room in a brisk tripedal gait, his expression, such as it was, inscrutable.
Donovan walked back to his parked e-cycle and sat in the spring sunshine for several minutes without starting up the engine. Was his erze master right? Was it better for the zhree to impose mandatory Hardenings if the alternative was Kreet withdrawing support and leaving Earth defenseless? Or even, as Commander Tate feared, deciding to put an end to the Hardening of humans altogether? Were those really the grim possibilities that lay ahead?
Donovan’s father had always argued that the survival and progress of humankind depended on being part of the galactic community and eventually rising to the level of the zhree. His mother insisted that nothing the aliens could offer or impose was worth sacrificing human freedom. What would they have thought of the discussion in the assembly chamber today?
Donovan shook his head; he was neither his father nor his mother, thank erze. He would never have to make the kinds of decisions they’d made. He gripped the e-cycle’s handlebars; the machine verified his exocellular body signature and pulled forward under his guidance.
He had the rest of the day off duty. Leon and Cass were no doubt asleep after their patrol shift, and Jet was probably with Vic. Donovan slowed indecisively as he reached the next intersection. Making up his mind guiltily, he turned left onto the main spoke road and, with the wind flying pleasantly at his back, took the straight path all the way to the wall of the Round. The guard at Gate 5 waved him through, and Donovan sped the e-cycle from the clean, wide streets of Round Three into the narrower, more crowded concrete landscape of the Ring Belt. Twenty minutes later, he slowed as he entered an old, neglected part of the city that few people considered to have any redeeming qualities: the Transitional Habitation grids.
Jet wouldn’t be pleased to know that he had come here. The TransHabs were not the sort of place an erze-marked person normally visited, and certainly not alone. SecPac officers on patrol in this area kept a hand near their weapon and their armor raised. The low-income apartment buildings that crowded the neighborhood had been built after the War Era to house refugees; in a way, they still served that purpose. Even though all the streets here looked the same, Donovan didn’t need the e-cycle’s navigation. His destination was familiar to him now.
Coming here had become an addiction, a habit that Donovan couldn’t break even though he knew he should. The e-cycle’s quiet hum died as Donovan pulled it to a stop in front of an unremarkable five-story building, no different from any of the others. Once a week, sometimes twice, he found himself parked here on the corner, even though what he saw hadn’t changed in over two months: a wooden post plastered with old flyers and staples, two Xs spray-painted side by side. One X still bright white because Donovan had put it there himself a week ago, the other old and fading away to nothing.
Last year, when Anya had escaped the algae farm and returned to her sister’s apartment, she and Donovan had begun exchanging a simple message: an X on the post, every couple of weeks. It was their way of saying “I’m still here” and “I’m okay,” and maybe even “I miss you.” For the first several months, every time Donovan saw Anya’s freshly painted X on the post, he would get out of the skimmercar, sometimes with Jet’s worried and disapproving gaze following him, and apply a new coat of paint to his own X. He would gaze up at the blocky, concrete building behind the post and imagine Anya inside and feel nearly sick with the urge to go in and find her—to see her again, to talk to her, to be near her—even for a few minutes.
“Come on, D,” Jet would call, his voice curt. “Let’s go.”
He always left. In those early months when his spirits had been at their lowest, he would remember that he’d promised Anya’s sister he wouldn’t ever darken their apartment door again. He and Anya were from different worlds, on different sides of a conflict that had been going on for a hundred years. The two of them together could only be dangerous and dysfunctional, the way Donovan’s parents had been. If there was one thing Donovan didn’t want, it was to risk becoming like his parents. No, he convinced himself, again and again, it was enough—it had to be enough—just for him to know Anya was okay. That was, until she stopped responding.
Donovan took out the spray-paint can he kept in the e-cycle’s storage compartment and walked up to the post. He repainted his X, as he had before, though it felt like a futile gesture now. Anya had surely tired of their little game. What was the point? Why leave messages for someone you never saw, never spoke to, could never have a real relationship with? He couldn’t blame her for no longer acknowledging him, though he kept hoping she would.
Donovan stowed the spray-paint can and swung his leg back over the seat of the e-cycle. He wrapped his hands around the grips of the handlebars but didn’t pull the vehicle forward. Instead, he sat, still staring up at the building. He remembered his relief at the mission briefing, when Anya’s face had not been among the pictures on the wall screen behind Commander Tate. He was thankful she wasn’t with Kevin, but where was she? Had something happened to her?
Donovan got off his e-cycle. Perhaps it had been the failed raid in Denver, or Brett’s reappearance as Jonathan, or asserting himself on his final day as adviser to the zhree zun—but something made him feel different today, bolder and more anxious at the same time. Or maybe it was simply that Jet wasn’t here to stop him. Donovan let his feet carry him across the sidewalk, into the building, and up the short flight of narrow concrete stairs to the door he’d promised he wouldn’t visit again. He stood in the hall, breathing a little too loudly.
Why are you doing this? If Jet were here, that’s what he would be angrily demanding right now. Donovan set his jaw, replying with the truth: I still care about her. He rapped on the door. Immediately, he heard a scurry of movement from inside, but no one came to the entrance. He knocked again, more loudly. An unfamiliar man’s voice shouted, “What do you want?”
Taken aback, Donova
n answered automatically. “This is SecPac. Open the door.” Immediately, he kicked himself. That was the exact wrong thing to say. He was alone in a hostile neighborhood with his erze markings visible, and none of his erze mates knew where he was right now. He had no idea who the man behind the door was and whether he was armed or dangerous. Also, he was not here on any sort of official SecPac investigation or search; he had no legal reason to demand that whoever was inside allow him entry.
“I’m not opening the door for no stripes!” came the angry reply.
Taking a deep breath, Donovan put on his calmest, most convincing public-officer voice. “Sir, I’m not here to search the apartment or arrest anyone. I need to speak with Ms. Dodson.” That could apply to either Anya or her sister. “I have reason to be concerned for her safety. Can you tell me if she’s here?”
A scuffling erupted behind the door and then the dead bolt was drawn back and the door opened only to the width permitted by the latched chain. A man’s pinched face appeared in the crack between the door and the frame. His red-rimmed nostrils twitched and his watery, shifty eyes darted over Donovan. “I’ve done nothing wrong, and I’m not letting in a shroom pet!” The cheeks of his thin face were sweaty.
“Is Ms. Dodson there?” Donovan demanded.
“If you’re talking about the broad who used to live here, she’s long gone. Moved away. Your SecPac info’s way out of date, man!” He chuckled as if this was hilarious.
“She had a younger sister, a teenager,” Donovan pressed.
“They’re both gone, all right? They haven’t been back and I don’t know anything.” The door slammed shut and the dead bolt clicked loudly into place. Donovan heard the man moving and cursing inside.
Anger and frustration welled in Donovan’s chest. He was used to dealing with uncooperative people, but being called an alien tool was always hard to take. The guy was clearly hiding something; Donovan was sure that if he broke the chain on the door and went inside the single room that lay beyond, he’d find stolen goods or weapons or drugs.
